The Winner
by Force Unbroken
Summary: He's fire. She's ice. Both have short fuses. Neither are willing to back down. But there are two sides to every story. Can an argument bring them understanding?
1. Part One: Han's Perspective

_This story takes place just prior to The Empire Strikes Back. It is my first Star Wars fanfiction, and explores the different perspectives of Han Solo and Leia Organa as they struggle to win their own personal battles. There are two sides to every story. This is theirs._

**_Disclaimer: _**_So... I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. All rights go to George Lucas and all affiliated with the production of the Star Wars films. It's their world. I just play in it._

* * *

**_The Winner_**

**Part One**

**Han's Perspective**

As you stand here, hip-hitched, staring back into those same deep, dark, liquid-brown eyes that have alternately charmed and infuriated you for almost three years now, you start to wonder for the umpteenth time just how the heck you got yourself into this mess.

Sure, when you think back hard enough, you can remember. You can recall the inside of that seedy hovel of a cantina (your kind of place) where you first met the old man and the kid, and where you got commissioned (or suckered) into hauling their butts, plus two of the most annoying droids you've ever seen in your life, to Alderaan (for a substantial fee, of course). You can remember putting up with the old man's seemingly endless droning about hokey religions and ancient weapons and watching the farmboy waving around that glorified nerf-steak knife of his. You can remember thinking about how those seventeen thousand credits you were supposed to receive in compensation for your services would really save your neck.

And you can remember in perfect detail feeling your heart plummet through the pit of your stomach when you brought your beloved ship out of hyperspace and into an uncharted asteroid field that _should not have been there_.

It was just your luck.

Of course things couldn't have been easy. You just had to get sucked into that floating pillbox of a space station, and then you had to go and follow the old man and the kid all over that blasted Death Star, clunking around in a suit of stormtrooper armor and slinking through the place like you were a kriffing womp rat. Then, as if that wasn't monument enough to your lunacy, you found yourself traipsing like an absolute idiot into a detention level simply because the greenhorn kid wanted to spring a princess out of her cell.

Yeah, you were just that stupid.

Never mind that that firebrand of a princess was one of the toughest and most beautiful women you'd ever laid eyes on. Never mind that she'd just had her whole world literally blown out from underneath her. All you could think about at the time was that this petite but powerful girl had just dumped you into a garbage masher and had almost gotten you killed in an attempt to save your lives.

How ironic. You didn't know whether following her would lead to your escape or your death.

You didn't know whether you were going to kill her, or if you were beginning to like her.

Somehow, after managing to escape the Death Star with your passengers, minus the old man and plus the princess (you weren't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing), you found yourself transporting them to the elusive home base of the Rebel Alliance, unwittingly becoming a pawn in the Rebels' scheme for the time being. It had been your intention to take your reward and run with it as soon as you possibly could, and that was what you did: loaded up and ran with barely a goodbye. After all, you weren't about to watch Luke and the Rebels get themselves killed.

It was after you left that you started looking back.

Suddenly there were a million reasons in your mind to stay, a thousand arguments popping into your head, and for some reason you couldn't get the image of a girl with the deepest brown eyes you'd ever seen out of your brain. Driven by that image, you'd altered course and headed straight into what could have been considered one of the Nine Corellian Hells, skimming much closer than you'd ever like against the surface of that awful battle station and saving the life of the kid who would become your best friend (besides Chewie, of course). _But it ain't final_, you told yourself as you felt the heaviness of the medal the princess was hanging around your neck. You didn't have to stick around. You could leave whenever you wanted.

And right now, you were wondering why you hadn't left this party almost three years ago.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself (which you're not inclined to do), you would admit that the reason you're still with the Alliance might be standing right in front of you, gazing back at you with fire burning in those liquid eyes. But you won't admit it because it can't possibly be true…

Can it?

No, you decide. Because the girl in front of you, the beautiful, headstrong leader is, without a doubt, the most infuriating human on the face of the planet.

Heck, make that the most infuriating being in the galaxy.

You got into your first argument with her only minutes after meeting her. (You got your first hug from her too, and you can't deny that that felt nice, but that's beside the point.) She even had the gall to accuse you of being a lowly, arrogant smuggler and mercenary while she was on board _your_ ship, being transported across the galaxy to safety because of _you_! Who did she think she was? Had she forgotten completely who'd sprung her out of that Imp-infested prison?

No, she hadn't, which made her all the more intriguing. And infuriating.

After that, arguments between the two of you had been anything but uncommon. It was almost like even standing within a ten-foot radius of each other was enough to make your blood boil. She knew just what to say to set you off, and you, in turn, knew just how to get under her skin. You fought hard, and she fought harder. It was just the way things worked.

You can't remember what started this argument. You honestly can't. You've been going at it for too long and too hard to remember, and right now you can't spare the extra brain power to try and recall while formulating a response to counter her biting words. But if it followed the course of your previous arguments (and it probably did), then it more than likely began with her starting up her whole "commit to the Alliance" speech and you getting slightly offended and making a smart remark about how she never gave up or shut up. That usually set her off pretty good, which produced the desired effect and gave you some satisfaction, but it never ended there. She wouldn't let it.

She stands before you, defiant, her anger visible on her face. You'd never believed she'd been eighteen when you met her, and you can barely believe that she's just now twenty-one. She acts much older than that. _She grew up too fast_, a little voice in the back of your head whispers, but you shut it up. You're too mad right now to begin to justify her.

You're used to arguments, Force knows you are, especially with her. But most of the time your arguments are more like children fighting, backing off before real blood is drawn. This time though, you're really angry, and so is she.

The rage you feel burning in your blood courses through your veins like liquid fire. _Screw this_, you think, giving in to your desire to shut her up. You feel it strengthen your resolve as you let the words fly from your lips, the unquenchable hunger of that feeling:

The undeniable desire to win.

You blame it on your past, your childhood. Growing up practically an orphan, you got used to fighting hard for just the simplest things: food, water, credits, shelter. If you didn't fight hard enough, if you lost, then you went without.

And you hated going without.

So you got used to fighting with everything: your fists, your brains, your mouth, your flying skills, anything that would help you win the constant battle to survive in the cruel world you'd been born into. You fought until you won, and if you didn't win, if you got beaten, then you dragged yourself to your feet and started to fight all over again. Eventually you stopped losing so much and started winning.

And you got good at it.

Winning made all your successes and victories taste that much sweeter. You began to crave it, as an addict does spice, and you hated the bitter taste of defeat. You got dealt your share of blows, and you tasted blood more often than not, but you didn't let yourself give in when you felt the beginnings of the burn of defeat on your tongue. You pushed yourself until the sweet balm of victory invaded your lips again. You aren't used to being challenged like this.

But when you met Leia, you met your match.

And you won't lose to her.

She's livid now, your words infuriating her, and once again you're back on the subject of commitment. You know she despises the fact that you won't commit yourself to the Alliance, the cause that she's thrown her whole life into since you first brought her to Yavin almost three years ago. But it's like you've told her before: you aren't going to throw away your life on a lost cause when what you need to be doing is getting out of here and saving your own skin. The callous card only makes her angry, but it's a good excuse for you, because it gets your mind off the real reason why staying here is so dangerous:

Because you're scared that if you get any closer to her, pulling away again will be impossible.

But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know you, not really. You won't ever let her know the real reason you refuse to stay. Let her think that you don't care. What do you have to lose anyway? What do you care what she thinks?

But you do care. And you have to pretend every day that what she thinks you are doesn't hurt.

Her words come hard and fast, and you know she's intended them to be the peak of her argument: "Truth? You want to know the truth, Solo? The truth is that you're too much of a coward to give any part of yourself to anything. You turn a blind eye to everything but your own personal cause because it's all you want to see. You only want to look out for yourself, and you don't want to know what other people are going through. Some of these men have given everything, Han! They've lost their families, homes, and thousands have lost their lives, but they keep fighting for what's right because they are not afraid of the consequences. They want to bring down tyranny, and make a better life for themselves and everyone else in this galaxy, and unlike you, they aren't afraid to feel for something other than themselves!"

That's it. No more playing nice. You've never been so mad at her before, but deep down, you know you're mad at yourself too. Mad that this is what she thinks of you, but more than anything, mad because you know that in some ways, she's right.

But that doesn't stop you from delivering your final blow. You feel the pull again, the inexorable pull at your sternum, the deep, burning desire within to win at all costs.

And you give into it.

"Feel?" you hear yourself roar incredulously, your fists clenched so hard at your sides that a tight pain runs through your hands and up into your arms. "What would you know about that, huh? You, the almighty Princess Leia, up on that pedestal of yours… Tell me, Your Worship, do you ever come down off that thing? Or is it too degrading to be down here with us commoners?" You tower over her by almost a foot, but you draw closer to her, staring down on her hard, as if to intimidate her. You stick your finger in her face, noting the fire of fury blazing behind those beautiful eyes, and you can't stop yourself. "You don't know the first thing about feeling. You walk around like you're made of stone, and you leave a trail of ice wherever you go. So you tell me, Your Worship, do you feel anything at all?"

And about two seconds after those words leave your mouth, you realize that you've screwed up.

Big time.

You forgot. You totally forgot what tomorrow commemorates, what's been burned into her mind for almost three years now. Tomorrow marks the third anniversary of the day you first met her.

Tomorrow marks the third anniversary of the day Alderaan was destroyed.

The day she lost everything.

And you suddenly have the desire to shoot yourself in the foot with the strongest blaster you can find.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't move. She doesn't even breathe for a moment. You find yourself drowning in the pools of her eyes, and for the briefest instant, you watch as her strong, untouchable façade shatters and falls. Her expression never changes, but for the first time, the distance in her eyes fades away, and all you can see is hurt, a hurt so deep that it pierces your own soul with its pain. You have the almost uncontrollable desire to pull her into your arms and hold her until her pain subsides, but you know she would never seek comfort from you.

And you don't blame her one bit.

You watch her build the wall again, the one that surrounds her heart, and the hurt in her eyes is quickly replaced by a dead, empty nothingness that chills you to the bone. Her expression is unreadable; you can't see anything written across her ivory features except exhaustion, but she draws herself up to her full height, exuding that inner strength in the only way she knows how, and when she speaks her voice is so soft that unless you saw her lips moving, you never would have believed it was hers. "I do feel, Han," she whispers, and she never looks away from you, though you can tell she wants to more than anything. "More than you know."

And she walks away. There is no anger in her stride, no emotion fueling it at all. She just puts one foot in front of the other, heading towards nowhere in particular, just desperate to get away from you. You stare at her retreating form in silence, and deep in your heart, you know you just scored the final blow.

You won.

But for once, the taste of victory is not sweet on your lips. It tastes cloying, nauseating, and as it slides through your lips and over your tongue you just want to retch. Those same words echo through your head, over and over: _You won, Solo. You won._

But at what price?

Your heart thumps hard against your ribs, hard enough to hurt. Round one goes to you, Han Solo. _Ding ding ding, _we have a winner. Come on up and claim your prize.

But the cost of your victory was her pain. You know you hurt her. And you can't take it back.

_You won, Han Solo_.

But for once, you don't want to be the winner.


	2. Part Two: Leia's Perspective

**_Disclaimer: _**_So... I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. All rights go to George Lucas and all affiliated with the production of the Star Wars films. It's their world. I just play in it._

* * *

**_The Winner_**

**Part Two**

**Leia's Perspective**

As you stand here, your arms crossed over your chest and your blood burning, you begin to wonder why you even care whether he stays.

Sure, the Rebellion is in desperate need of recruits, especially ones who know how to outwit the Empire. Han's smart (though you'd never admit that to his face; his ego's big enough to create its own gravitational pull as it is), and he's a good pilot. A _great_ pilot (though you aren't going to admit that to him either). But in the time he's been here, he's been so much more than that. He's been a friend, someone you could talk to, someone who understands you in ways that most people don't. Sometimes, you honestly like having him around.

But at times like these, you almost wish he'd just go ahead and leave.

Arguments with Han are nothing out of the ordinary. You have a fiery personality, and so does he. You're dedicated to the cause of all, he's dedicated to the cause of one. He's selfish, you're selfless. You're a diplomat, he's…well, you aren't really sure what he is. A pilot, a smuggler, a mercenary…yes, those descriptions fit him well. You are both so different, and yet, in some ways you're the same. You're both strong-willed, and independent, and you're both fighters, in more ways than one.

But the differences that separate you are stronger than the similarities.

He's fire, you're ice. He's free to think and feel however he likes, and he can let his emotions show. You, on the other hand, aren't. You're a princess, and you're supposed to keep it all together under a calm, cool veneer, no matter how you really feel. Sometimes you envy his ability to just let go and freely feel whatever he chooses. But that's the difference between you, you tell yourself. Han isn't used to using any kind of self-control. You know the art of restraint. And in the end, it makes you stronger.

The argument drags on, a verbal sparring match between two very-determined participants. Some days you're almost thankful for these moments, because they provide release for you when you can find none elsewhere. It has become the norm for you, a routine you've settled into when your life is otherwise so hectic and unpredictable.

Today, however is different.

Today, it has been all you can do to keep your mind out of the blackness that threatens to engulf it. You've thrown yourself full-force into everything you've accomplished or attempted to accomplish, never slowing, never ceasing, lest your mind wander back to that unthinkable subject. You were grateful for the opportunity to speak with Han, for it provided a distraction, keeping your tortured soul caged behind the bars of obscurity, making sure that nothing was visible through the strong exterior that you make sure you present unwaveringly to the world. Honestly, you weren't asking for a fight.

But only three seconds in Han's presence was enough to make you change your mind.

He just had to pick today to start in on you with his "don't get used to this; I'm leaving" speech, giving you only another reminder of everything you've lost and still stand to lose. After Alderaan, you swore to yourself that you wouldn't let yourself get close to anyone again, because you honestly didn't know if you could survive another blow like the one you'd just been dealt. But as you stand here before this man, gazing back into his somewhat-hazel eyes, you know that that promise you made to yourself has been broken. Without even realizing it, you've let him in. Your walls still stand strong, and he hasn't penetrated your defenses yet, but he has just enough of his foot in the door of your heart to make the thought of losing him hurt.

And pain was the one thing you wanted to avoid.

So you get angry, kicking back hard against him verbally, trying to push him away enough to get him out of your heart and head. He can't know how you feel. In all honesty, sometimes _you_ don't even know how you feel, and that is unacceptable for you. You need time to clear your head, and if the only way to do that is to push him away, then that's the only alternative you have.

You know that if you finger the one sore subject he has, you'll get the reaction from him you desire. Making him angry wasn't your primary objective, but maybe the clarity of anger will force him to reevaluate this situation and give you the alternative that you want the most. You stare him down, delivering your blow to his pride concealed behind a mask of ice and indifference, as if the only reason you care whether he stays or not is because of the Alliance. It's callous and unfeeling, you know, but it's the only card you can safely play right now.

He reacts exactly as you predicted, and you can see the first glimmers of real anger shining in his eyes. His irises are a strange muddle of colors, the predominant color of his eyes changing according to his mood, and right now they look cloudy and hard, a surefire indicator that you've scored a direct hit. You don't relish in your victory. It wasn't what you wanted. But you never let your inner feelings show on your face, and he never knows what's going on beneath your façade. Let him think that you hate him. It shouldn't matter to you. It shouldn't hurt to stare back into those strong, ever-changing eyes and lie to him, letting him think that this is the only side of you there is.

But it does.

You expected him to get defensive, expected him to try to justify himself to you and end by telling you to butt out of his business and go back to your own; but instead, he goes on the offensive, making a snide remark, thinly veiled behind his mask of anger, about the fact that you're always after him for something, and that you never give up or shut up about anything. A statement like that shouldn't affect you the way it does, shouldn't infuriate you, but you blame it on your current mood. You aren't going to let him get away with that. Selecting a well-aimed jab from your arsenal of comebacks and insults, you load your cannon and fire back.

And the argument grows more intense.

You can feel the urge to end this conflict building within your chest. Honestly, you're tired of fighting him, tired of feeling like this, tired _period_. So you give in and let your exhaustion fuel your acid tongue.

You've always been competitive. Even as a young girl, you always had a competitive drive, and you let it fuel you to be your best at everything you attempted. You were a tomboy, and you were determined to prove to everyone, yourself included, that you could do whatever the boys could do, and you could do it just as well if not better. You never backed down from a challenge, and if it resulted in physical injury, it was a small price to pay for proving your worth. This attitude exasperated your aunts, but you didn't care. Your father was the only person you cared to please anyway.

When you got older and pursued a career in the senate, your competitive drive became a valuable asset. In situations where anything less than a victory could spell disaster for hundreds, and sometimes thousands of lives, you pushed yourself harder than you would have ever imagined possible to win, but without compromising your idealism or beliefs. You got good at it, and you couldn't deny that you liked the sensations victory sent shooting through your veins.

But when you joined the Alliance, winning took on a whole different meaning.

Now, every win for you is a matter of life and death. If you let your guard down, if you don't fight with everything that is within you and more, then you'll become just another casualty in the war against tyranny.

And you can't let that happen.

So you fight as hard as you can. You don't back down, not even for a second. And you especially won't back down from Han. You push yourself to win this argument, not only because you hate the burn of loss, but to prove to yourself that you can.

You're completely fed up at this point, and you only want to escape the verbal war that you and Han are engaged in. You don't have the energy to fight him anymore. Sucking in a deep breath, you deliver your final blow, feeling the fire burning behind your eyes. "Truth? You want to know the truth, Solo? The truth is that you're too much of a coward to give any part of yourself to anything. You turn a blind eye to everything but your own personal cause because it's all you want to see. You only want to look out for yourself, and you don't want to know what other people are going through. Some of these men have given everything, Han! They've lost their families, homes, and thousands have lost their lives, but they keep fighting for what's right because they are not afraid of the consequences. They want to bring down tyranny, and make a better life for themselves and everyone else in this galaxy, and unlike you, they aren't afraid to feel for something other than themselves!"

With that, you think you've finally ended the battle. You think you've won.

But you've been wrong before.

He recoils visibly, almost stunned for a moment at the audacity of your statement. But he only stands back from you for a split second, then he's towering over you, staring down at you with fire blazing in his angry topaz eyes. "Feel?" Suddenly you realize that you don't think you've seen him really mad before; not like this. You can practically feel the heat of his anger radiating off of his body in waves. "What would you know about that, huh? You, the almighty Princess Leia, up on that pedestal of yours… Tell me, Your Worship, do you ever come down off that thing? Or is it too degrading to be down here with us commoners?" He draws even closer to you, his proximity meant to be intimidating, but it only makes you more livid. He shoves his finger in your face accusingly, and if you weren't so confused by the emotions that the closeness of his presence evokes, you would seriously think about planting your small fist to his jaw. You've been told that you have a heckuva right hook (and yes, he knows from experience).

He continues on, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "You don't know the first thing about feeling," he hisses, and you're taken aback by how much his words wound you. "You walk around like you're made of stone, and you leave a trail of ice wherever you go. So you tell me, Your Worship, do you feel anything at all?"

You can't move. Can't blink, can't breathe, can barely even think. The weight of his words stagger you, and you can hear them echoing through your mind, resonating on the inside of your skull, repeating like a horrible nightmare you wish you could forget…

_So tell me, Your Worship, do you feel anything at all?_

The images come flooding back, unbidden, and you find yourself fighting to hold it all together, the burn of tears pricking at your eyes and the all-too familiar tightness seizing your throat again. You can see it all, can see it as clearly as the day it occurred, feel the pain as fresh as it was in the instant that you lost everything. You watch the destruction of your home again and again like a broken holorecording imprinted in your mind, seared into your retinas; watch the end unfolding behind your deep, liquid eyes.

_Do I feel anything? I don't know anymore…_

And you don't. You're numb, constantly numb, the pain you carry within you, the guilt, enough to nearly drive you to your knees under its weight. It's the only thing that reminds you that you're still alive, still breathing. Because, in a sense, you don't live anymore. You died the day you watched your world go up in flames. You died the second you saw the explosion and heard the screams in your mind. You no longer live. You just exist.

But you do feel. You feel hurt, and anger, and pain, and loss, and guilt, and a thousand other things every second you breathe. You try your hardest to pretend it doesn't exist, putting up a strong, unbreakable exterior, not letting anyone see inside, but it's still there, still keeping its vise-grip on your heart. You lead everyone to believe that you're tough and hardened, that you don't feel anything, but it's all a lie. You do feel. You feel more than you ever let on. You feel the whole spectrum of emotions all at once, and some nights it's enough to nearly break you.

But you never let anyone know that.

And you'll never tell Han just how much it hurts.

You stare up into his eyes, and you pray to whoever might be listening that he can't see the vulnerability you feel. All the fight has suddenly gone out of you. All you feel is the pain of that memory, knowing that three years ago tomorrow marks the day you lost everything.

And it was your fault.

So fighting the wave of emotion that threatens to drown you, you listlessly gaze back at Han, noticing the regret etched onto his handsome face, and straighten your back until your posture is rigid. You try to force your tone to be emotionless, but when you hear your voice, you know you've failed. "I do feel, Han," you whisper, and you force yourself to hold his piercing gaze. "More than you know."

You can feel your control crumbling, and you know you have to get away from him, have to find somewhere you can hide until the pain subsides and the hurt is buried beneath the icy, impenetrable exterior you present once again. So you walk away, never looking back, and you know you've lost. The price of his victory was your pain, and you know it's only made it that much sweeter for him.

But as you retreat from his presence, you wonder if it even matters anymore.


	3. Part Three: Han's Perspective

**_Disclaimer: _**_So... I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. All rights go to George Lucas and all affiliated with the production of the Star Wars films. It's their world. I just play in it._

* * *

**_The Winner_**

**Part Three**

**Han's Perspective**

Eighteen minutes 'til midnight, and all the base sleeps.

All except for you.

As you lie here, tossing and turning, alternately tangling and untangling yourself in your sheets, you can't get the image of Leia out of your head, can't forget the way she looked as she walked away from you. You've never seen her look like that before. You've never seen defeat cross her features, never seen her look so tired, so worn, so…vulnerable. It was only for a second, but you know you'll never forget the intensity of the pain behind her eyes. You'll never forget the way she hid it all again, how the bleak, empty look behind her fiery liquid-brown eyes frosted your blood and made you more afraid than you've felt in awhile…

In retrospect, you know it was your fault. You are responsible for making her feel that way. You finally pushed her too hard, and you made her hurt. And you can't take it back.

But you wish you could.

Sighing, you run your hands over your face and through your scruffy hair, unable to lie still any longer. You throw back your covers restlessly, crawling out of your bunk, and proceed to shrug a shirt on over your bare chest and pull your jacket on after that. Unable to think of anything else to do, you pad towards the galley of your ship, tugging on your boots as you go, and key in on the _Falcon_'s food synthesizers for a cup of caf. Taking a sip of the hot liquid in your mug, you grimace. Stupid ship never did know how to make it right. Disgustedly you dump the remaining caf into the sink.

You find you can't sit still, so you begin to pace a bit, sauntering from the galley to the main hold and back, feigning nonchalance even though you know there's no one there to see you. Sleepless nights are fairly uncommon for you, unless you're in a situation where sleep isn't really possible, like when you have to fly an all-nighter and your autopilot's on the fritz. Normally you're out like a light, and nobody sees or hears a thing from you until morning (well, besides the snoring, anyway). But tonight your brain seems too restless to let you fall into the oblivion of sleep, and your body seems to be taking cues from your brain. So you're stuck, pacing back and forth, glancing periodically out the cockpit viewport at the inactive base before you, trapped inside your own mind.

Kinda scary in there.

You keep glancing towards the personnel quarters, and you can't help but find yourself thinking about a certain strong-willed princess, someone whose face you can never seem to get out of your mind…

And suddenly, you're lowering the boarding ramp of your beloved ship, knowing that you won't find rest until you set things right.

The base is cold. A wave of frigid air hits your face, and you wish you'd had the sense to grab your coat before you left. You have to talk to her, have to find some way of apologizing to her. You don't know how the heck you're going to do it, what to say, or where to even begin, but you're going to. Somehow.

You're just making this up as you go along.

You thread your way through corridor after corridor, trying to maintain some air of dignity and feign a mask of nonchalance in case anyone is watching, and you finally find yourself at the door of her quarters with no idea of what's going to come out of your big mouth. _Hey Leia, I know you probably still hate me right now, but please put the blaster down long enough for me to say I'm sorry for being an idiot and saying what I said and… Yeah. That's…pretty much it._

Well, it wouldn't be the worst speech you've ever given.

But that's not saying a lot.

You raise your hand and hesitate for a moment, then work up your nerve enough to knock on her door. You square your shoulders and take a deep breath, trying to ignore the fact that your mouth has gone dry. _What the heck is wrong with me?_

And…nothing. You wait patiently for a little while, wondering if she heard you, and you knock again, but the door doesn't budge an inch. You frown. Either she isn't there or she's _really_ good at playing hard to get.

You aren't sure which.

"Leia?" you call, nose pressed to the crack of the door, hoping that maybe she'll get brave enough to finally face you, or that maybe she's simmered down enough not to kill you for showing up and totally ruining a quiet moment of her rare downtime.

But you still get no reaction. And to you, that's unacceptable.

Screwing up your nerve, you key the door to open, half expecting to find her holding a blaster to your head for having the audacity to do so. But when the door slides fully open, all you see is a darkened, empty room, void of almost any kind of personal belongings.

It's also void of her.

You peek in, but you still don't see her, and somehow that doesn't surprise you. Either by some strange occurrence she knew you'd be coming and decided to high-tail it, or she's working one of those late-night shifts again, running herself ragged just for the fun of it. Sometimes you wonder if the kriffing girl has an aversion to sleep or something. She seems to try to avoid it.

You shake your head and sigh, closing the sleek metal door again and taking a moment to ponder just where in the heck she is. Of course, if you start thinking about it too long, you know you're going to start wondering just why it matters to you at all. But you try to edge around those thoughts and focus on her whereabouts. Wandering somewhat aimlessly away from her quarters, you silently list the most likely places to find her in your mind. She always seems to be in the command center doing something, so that'll definitely be high on your list. The mess hall is another place to check; she never seems to eat anything (and who could blame her, that unidentifiable glop they so laughably call "food" has about all the flavor and nutritional value of rancor drool and bantha fodder), but she does occasionally grace the mess with her presence long enough to nurse a cup of caf or work out some file on her almost ever-present datapad. You're practically certain that she'll be in either one of the two places.

But after checking both and not finding her, you're pretty much out of places to look. The girl has no life, you swear. She never _does_ anything, never comes out of that regal shell enough to have any kind of fun. She just works herself half to death and yells at you for not doing the same.

Typical her.

With a tired sigh you resign yourself to giving up your search, gradually beginning to wander back towards your ship, feeling the bitterness of defeat on the air. This is just great, you think, running a hand over your eyes and through your hair in frustration. You somehow manage to lose to her again, and she isn't even here this time.

The irony isn't lost on you.

Something suddenly catches your attention, and you aren't sure why you've stopped in your tracks. To your knowledge, you didn't see or hear anything, and you know you're not crazy. At least, you think you aren't. At this point you're left with two alternatives: either you really are losing it or there may be some truth to Luke's whole crazy "the Force may be acting on you" thing.

Truthfully, you aren't sure which alternative you like better.

Then you hear the slightest sound, so muted that you're barely sure you heard it at all. Looking up, you find yourself in front of the doorway to the observation dome, the room softly lit by the dim lights of control panels and the glow of the stars above.

But the room isn't empty.

She's standing there before you, a small figure dwarfed by the size of the room she's occupying. The darkness of her silky hair is highlighted by the glow of the stars, and it contrasts against the paleness of her ivory skin. She's clothed in white, making her look all the more ethereal. She doesn't know you're there, watching her, and you suddenly feel the desire to keep it that way. You duck into the shadows of the doorway, concealing yourself, your eyes never leaving her still form.

Her face is upturned toward the heavens, gazing out through the transparent roof of the observation dome, her eyes fixed on something you can't see. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and normally you'd think nothing of it; after all, you've seen her adopt that stance at least a thousand times when the two of you were arguing. But this time, there's a notable difference. Now there is no anger or defensiveness in her stance, no defiance or contempt. She holds onto her upper arms instead of adopting her usual harsh cross, and there's something strangely vulnerable about her posture. Even from this distance, she looks so…_young_. Gone is the cold façade she always presents, the layers of ice and stone that nothing ever seem to penetrate. For the first time, she's unguarded.

And she looks so alone.

Her lips are moving softly, and her liquid-brown eyes appear even more liquid than normal. Something traces her cheeks, gleaming silver in the moonlight, and you suddenly realize that the mysterious substance is tears, pooling in her eyes and streaming down her skin.

She's crying.

That realization is enough to knock you reeling. In the three years you've known her, you've never seen her display a moment of weakness. She's never let that impenetrable wall fall far enough for you, or anyone, to see inside. But now, she stands before you defenseless, and you can't help but want to protect her.

The softest of sounds drifts back to your ears, and you realize that it's her voice, barely audible above the stillness of the room. She's whispering something that you can barely recognize, but it suddenly dawns on you that the lilting, melodic words are an Alderaani prayer, something you heard once before when you were stopped over during a smuggling run on Delaya. You suddenly understand why her gaze is fixed on the heavens above, never straying from one spot in the crystal black sky, and you know what she's doing.

She's grieving.

You can hear the pain in her voice as she ends the prayer, and you feel guilt stabbing at your chest. How could you have said those things to her? Especially now? A small part of you is relieved, however. You were at first afraid that her tears were caused by your callousness, but you should have known better. This is Leia you're thinking of. She's stronger than that. Too strong to let your stupidity affect her this way.

But your regret for her sorrow overrides your relief, and you feel the guilt pressing down on you again.

Her lips are moving again, and her voice is barely audible through the stillness. But you catch her words, and they shock you.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice husky with restrained emotion. "Father, I'm so sorry. I'm the one to blame. Please forgive me." Her lips begin to tremble, and the tears flow freely from the pools of her eyes. "Please, please forgive me…"

And she lowers her gaze, her remaining strength crumbling, her face contorted with pain and grief. She covers her face with one small, trembling hand.

And then she weeps.

She tries to muffle her cries with her hand, but the sobs come hard and fast, unrelenting, and her shoulders hook as she struggles against the tide of emotions that threaten to drown her. It becomes a fight for her to remain standing, and she almost sinks to her knees, but she doesn't. Despite the pain of her situation, her inner strength shines through.

And that amazes you.

As you stand there, watching her from the shadows, you finally begin to understand her. For the first time, you know why she acts the way she does, why she presents such an icy, hard exterior, why she hides behind a wall, inside a shell. For three years you thought it was because she was afraid to feel, that she was incapable of feeling anything.

But now, you realize just how wrong you were.

She's not afraid to feel. She's not icy, or hard, or uncaring. She's not everything you thought she was.

She's more.

She presents a front to protect herself from more pain. Her façade is as much a protection as it is an outward show of her inner strength. She's been through more in her short life than you ever thought possible, but she still holds herself together without breaking, and in addition, she manages to shoulder the weight of a rebellion that seems doomed to fail at every turn. That alone is a testament to her strength.

But the larger testament is what you see standing before you now. This is what proves her strength. She's lost everything, everyone she's ever held dear, and you know that it hurts her. You've always known, but you were so blinded by your own preconceived and incorrect notions of her that it never even mattered to you. But she never showed any kind of reaction to losing her home and family, never shed a tear for them. You thought that was because she didn't feel, was afraid to feel.

But now you know the truth. She's not afraid to feel.

She's just strong enough to keep her pain inside.

She's been alone with this for three years, and has never breathed a word to anyone. You always thought that she might blame herself somewhat for what happened to her homeworld, but you never knew just how much she was affected until now. She shoulders the blame herself. She doesn't make excuses, she doesn't try to pass the blame. She just takes it herself.

You shake your head. A burden that heavy should never be placed on those small shoulders. She deserves better than that.

Her sobs finally abate, and she is left standing, breathless and exhausted. She brushes away the remnants of her tears, her brokenness healing once again, and she straightens up again, that strength lifting her shoulders and sustaining her. She dispels a long, deep, shaky breath, and returns her eyes to the heavens. The determination and strength in her gaze astounds you all over again, and you find yourself slipping from the shadows that conceal you, heading silently and slowly towards her small figure. You need this. For reasons you can't even explain, you need to be the one to hold her, to apologize, to convince her that none of this is her fault. You know that she's capable of handling it on her own, and she has for the last three years. But it isn't a question of her strength. You just want her to know that no matter what, she isn't alone.

Not anymore.

You stand slightly behind her and off to her left side, and you can see the tiny flash of recognition in her eyes. Silently you plead with her to face you, to give you some indication that you haven't screwed up with her too badly. You open your mouth to speak, but somehow you know that nothing you can say will help her. She doesn't face you, only closes her eyes for a moment, and you can see her face beginning to harden again, but suddenly, it stops, her expression remaining strong but unguarded. You understand how much this means, how hard it is for her to stand before you with no defenses. She trusts you.

_Oh kreth, how can she possibly trust me?_

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach out to her, letting your fingers rest lightly on her arm. She's shivering, but she fights to still it. Her eyes restlessly scan the heavens, and you find your gaze locked with hers, drowning in the depths of her dark pools. There is so much there, so much you've never seen before, never recognized before, and you resist the urge to trace her jaw line with your fingertips. After all, she doesn't need this. She doesn't need you.

But you're beginning to wonder if deep down, you need her.

The pain you see in her eyes constricts your chest, but this time, you don't shy away from it. Instead you open yourself to it, staring deeper into the twin orbs, trying to shoulder some of her sorrow, telling her silently that you want to take the pain she feels if she'll only let you. You want to offer her some solace, but words will not come; you've never been eloquent anyway. It just never came with your profession. But still, you can't let the silence hang unbroken. So you say the only thing you can.

"I'm sorry."

It's not enough. Those two simple words will never be enough. But they're a start. You hope that she knows what you mean. _I'm sorry Leia. I'm sorry for Alderaan, for my stupidity, for the Rebellion, for the evil of the Empire, for the people who die everyday for freedom, for everything you've ever had to go through and everything you'll ever face…_

And she nods, understanding. Her eyes close for a moment, the deep connection you shared severed abruptly, and she inhales deeply. Then her eyes open, and she finds your eyes again. "I know," she whispers softly, her voice trembling with emotion and thick with restrained tears. She looks away, her gaze fixed upon the pinpricks in the skies above, searching for answers in the blackness of the void. "Me too."

Silence engulfs you for a moment, and you watch her bravely face the past, the future, and the unknown all at once. She feels cold beneath your fingers, her slight trembling caused by her body's reaction to the temperature. Her lower lip disappears between her teeth. You find yourself watching her, unable to tear your gaze away from her face, her eyes. You hadn't wanted to admit it, but you know now that your own guarded heart has opened up to her, and deep inside, you wish you could finally admit what she means to you.

But she doesn't need that from you. All she needs is comfort. And that's the one thing you can give her.

Slowly, delicately, tenderly, you slide your arm around her small shoulders, holding her close, offering your warmth to her. You'd half expected her to shy away from your touch, half expected her to put up a fight, but she doesn't. For a moment her eyes lock with yours, and something passes between you that you've never experienced before.

And then she does something that really shocks you.

She leans into your half-embrace, her head gently coming to rest against the solidness of your shoulder. There is reluctance in her expression and actions, but she does not pull away from you. Relief floods through you. She's accepted your apology, has given you her forgiveness, doesn't hold anything against you though she has every right to. She's allowed you to see her when she's at her weakest. She's let you be the one to hold her and tell her that it'll all be alright in the end.

You aren't exactly sure what all this means, but it can't be a bad thing, right?

So you follow her gaze upward, watching a fading spot of brightness against the sea of black, and memorize the feeling of having her in your arms. You can't say that tomorrow will be any different, whether anything will change between the two of you. You don't know whether she'll look at you any different now, or whether you'll see her in a different light. You can't guarantee that you'll never fight her again. But here, standing with her now, you don't feel like any of that matters. Here, with her in your arms, you feel like you've already won.

So how does it feel to be the winner now?


	4. Part Four: Leia's Perspective

**_Disclaimer: _**_So... I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. All rights go to George Lucas and all affiliated with the production of the Star Wars films. It's their world. I just play in it._

**_Author's Note: _**_The poetry pieces featured in the Alderaanian prayer of the dead are as follows: **This Heritage**, Author Unknown; and **There Will Come A Day**, Author Unknown._

* * *

**_The Winner_**

**Part Four**

**Leia's Perspective**

The night grows longer.

You lie awake, tossing and turning, unable to make yourself remain still enough for sleep to enfold you in its loose embrace. Sleep never comes easy to you anymore, but tonight, your insomnia is even worse. Deep down, you're not surprised. Somehow you knew it would be.

Frustrated, you let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling as you lie on your back in bed. The blankets are pulled up around your chin, but you still feel cold. You're always cold, the frigid air of the base doing nothing to help insulate your small form. But the temperature isn't your only problem. You feel cold on the inside as well.

Han was right. He was right when he said you were frigid, that you left a trail of ice wherever you went. You know you put up a cold exterior, but it's not for the reasons he believes. The cold shuns away things that could hurt you. It is a shield that protects you and keeps you strong. It keeps you numb.

And sometimes, feeling nothing is the only way you can survive.

You close your eyes, but it is only for a moment. The forces of gravity seem to be dragging your lids open instead of closed, no matter how exhausted you feel inside. You haven't slept for days, not really; maybe a few minutes dozing here and there, but you haven't been able to sink into the blissful oblivion of sleep in what seems like forever. For you, though, sleep never seems to be blissful at all. In reality you avoid it, working late into the night just to escape its talon-like grip, surviving off of endless cups of caf as black as you can possibly stand it. That was what you intended to do tonight, hiding away in the command center and downloading every possible file in need of updating to your datapad, but General Rieekan had to find you and send you back to your room, telling you to get some rest. _Like I can, _you think bitterly, rolling your eyes and sucking your bottom lip between your teeth. Rieekan's been like a father to you ever since…well, ever since you didn't have one, but right now, you could strangle him for confining you to this prison. It gives you too much time to think, and your mind is wandering into places you wish it wouldn't explore.

You keep going back to your earlier argument with Han, and you wince every time the memory crosses your sleep-deprived brain. You're used to throwing insults back and forth, the verbal sparring becoming somewhat of a game between you two, but this time, what he said _hurt_, really hurt, and you know that deep down, you wounded him too. You grit your teeth in anger, but this time, you're only angry at yourself. Why do you always seem to hurt the ones who are closest to you? Why do you wound the ones you care about the most? Why do people suffer because of you? You shudder, but you can't stop the flood of memories, the images exploding behind your eyes, the things you wish you could forget but know you never will. It's all because of you.

It's your fault.

You can no longer keep your thoughts away from the one subject you've been avoiding with all your might. You've held the emotions deeply inside you for three years, locked away within the walls of your heart, but the walls are no longer strong enough to hold the pain at bay. You feel it all, as fresh and raw a wound as the day it was inflicted. Time has done nothing to dull it, and in the confines of your guarded heart, the razor-edge of pain has only grown sharper.

But this time, you don't have the strength to fight it anymore.

The thoughts swirling chaotically in you head are enough to make you feel dizzy, trapped; the confines of your room causing a wave of claustrophobia to set in. The blankets that once kept you warm and safe in their cocoon now only tie you down, evoking memories of shackled wrists, cold metal tables, and unimaginable pain. You close your eyes tight, panic seizing your throat and wrapping a vise-like grip around your heart. Lungs burning, you struggle for air, pulling with all your might, but it won't come. You can't breathe.

And your fight or flight instinct takes over.

All the fight drains out of you, exhaustion rocking you to your core, and all there is left to do is run. You're desperate to escape, to find somewhere you can breathe again, somewhere safe from the demons of your past.

So you run.

You stumble from your room, the cold air hitting your face with a strength and fury powerful enough to constrict your chest even further. What little breath you have is emitted in puffs of steam from your lips, visible in the frigid air. Your eyes burn against the cold, and tears begin to form in them, but you convince yourself it's just a reaction to the temperature. You can't break now.

You just can't.

Every step you take carries you farther from the prison of your quarters, but still you keep going, guided by nothing but the incredible need to breathe freely, your eyes open wide but seeing nothing around you. You can feel yourself weakening, your body reacting to the extreme pressure you face. Your legs won't support you much longer.

Then, suddenly, you stop, and you realize where you are. There, looming before you like a shadow, is the observation dome.

And somewhere, some part of you realizes what you must do.

Before you have a chance to react, to think, you find yourself inside the doors of the observation dome, not even bothering to reach for the door controls. Air suddenly returns to your lungs, and you gasp it in, the bitter cold stabbing your chest as your lungs rhythmically expand and contract. Your legs abruptly give out, crumpling beneath you as your strength leaves, and you sag limply against the cold wall, sliding to the floor and drawing your knees to your chest. You press your forehead hard into your knees and grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes tightly shut against a wave of emotion that floods over you. _I can't do this_, you think, the panic welling up within you again, your heart thrumming painfully against your ribs. _Oh, Force, I can't._ The pain is still too fresh, the wound too deep. You've held it within yourself for so long, hidden behind the protective walls of your soul, the hurt buried deeply and throbbing raw in its dormancy, but now you must do the one thing you've avoided for three years, must cradle the pain openly and give it solace.

And you're afraid.

But for the first time in three years, you have no strength left to fight.

You lean your head back against the wall, your eyes searching the empty space above you for answers. Silent tears stream down your face, but you barely notice them, only feel the cold trails they leave as they wind their way from your lashes down your cheeks. Weakness like this is something you never permit yourself, never allowing tears to fall even when you're alone. The nightmares have become unbearable, torturing you to the point where you sleep only the bare minimum required for day-to-day survival, maybe two to three hours a night, but even then, even though you wake up screaming with tears unconsciously streaming down your face, you merely wipe them away and lie there, never returning to sleep for the rest of the night. You stay strong for yourself, but more importantly, you stay strong for them, determined not to let their sacrifice become meaningless. They deserve better than grief from you. They deserve nothing but your strength.

It is for them that you've thrown your all into the Alliance. You believe in the cause, and you want to end tyranny, but the main driving force behind your actions is their memory, the thousand voices screaming in your head, the whispers you can never escape or silence. You swore to yourself that you'd never let anyone die like that again, and you mean to keep that oath. The Empire will never take another world away from anyone. You will give your life before that happens. And honestly, sometimes you wish you had. You wish you'd died at the hands of Vader, because it would have been easier to die than to live without your soul.

But easy has never been part of the equation. And now is no different. You have to do this, for them just as much as yourself.

You have to say goodbye.

Slowly, hesitantly, every muscle in your body screaming against you, you rise from the floor, the cold radiating through your bones. You push away from the wall, unsteadily making your way to the center of the floor, arms wrapped tightly around your trembling form as you cast your gaze upward. The storms of Hoth have abated, this night calm and peaceful, in contrast with the turmoil of your heart. The sky is black, unfathomably black, the brightness of the stars glimmering like diamonds sprinkled across a raven canvas. But your sable eyes do not search for a star. Instead, your gaze traces the heavens in familiar patterns and lines, connecting the dots and following the stars home.

_Home…_

For there it is above you, nothing more than a speck of silvery dimness, a whisper of bright shadow in the void. What was once the beauty and brilliance of a star, a home, a world, is now nothing more than a field of debris, illuminated by the light of its sister planet. It is the ruins of your home.

It is the remnants of Alderaan.

Whatever is left of your heart stops beating, the shattered remains sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. It hurts. Every time you stare into the heavens, it hurts, knowing that you'll never find what you're looking for, that you'll never see what was once there. It's gone.

And it isn't coming back.

For a moment, all you can concentrate on is breathing, drawing air into and expelling it out of your lungs. The sharp, incessant ache in your chest grows stronger, every breath you take laced with pain. You open your mouth, desperate to speak, desperate to say something, anything, to ease the agony within you, but the words won't come. You don't know how to even start. There's so much to say, so much you must atone for.

_Oh kreth, how do I even begin?_

Then something begins to whisper through your mind, words you have not spoken since you were eight, a silent prayer once uttered long ago…

And suddenly you know.

The tears flow furiously now, and you couldn't restrain them if you tried. Lips trembling, you find your voice, words spilling from the depths of what was once your soul, whispering the Alderaani prayer of the dead in the tongue of your people.

"_A'hashar ad'hil t'allé mey'or," _you murmur softly, the beauty of the language you speak evoking memories you've locked away for thirteen years. Once again, you're a little girl standing beside your mother's grave, your father's arm wrapped around your small shoulders, rain mixing with the tears that stain your face. Your adoptive mother's funeral was the last time you heard the prayer spoken, the last time you allowed yourself to cry freely. Now it all comes flooding back.

In your mind you translate the prayer into Basic, moved by the significance of the words you speak. _"They are not dead, who leave us this great heritage of remembered joy. They still live in our hearts, in the happiness we knew, in the dreams we shared. They still breathe, in the lingering fragrance windblown from their favorite flowers. They still smile in the moonlight's silver, and laugh in the sunlight's sparkling gold. They still speak in the echoes of words we've heard them say again and again. They still move, in the rhythm of waving grasses, in the dance of the tossing branches. They are not dead; their memory is warm in our hearts, comfort in our sorrow. They are not apart from us, but a part of us, for love is eternal, and those we love shall be with us throughout all eternity. There will come a day when the tears of sorrow will softly flow into tears of remembrance, and our hearts will begin to heal, and grieving will be interrupted by episodes of joy, and we will hear the whisper of hope. There will come a day when we will welcome the tears of remembrance as a sunshower of the soul, a turning of the tide, a promise of peace. There will come a day when we will risk loving, go on believing, and treasure the tears of remembering. For in remembering, we keep the ones who have gone on alive, and in our strength, we honor the memory of those who have passed before us. May they always find rest and peace, and may the stars beckon them home."_

As the prayer ends, you close your eyes, images playing behind your closed lids like broken holorecordings. You see it all, everything you've missed, everything that was destroyed in the explosion: the t'ill fields in bloom, the snow on the mountain peaks, the shimmer of the moonlight on the waters, the warmth of the sun, the beauty of the world you once called home. You can see your mother the way she was before she got sick, smiling at you, her hazel-brown eyes warm and comforting; can see children laughing and playing in the grassy hills, scattering the t'ill blossoms to the winds. But the sight that most pains you is the image of your father, the memories of his face and eyes, the warmth of his arms and strength of his character. You'd give anything to see him again, to say goodbye one last time, to apologize for your failures and tell him how sorry you are. How could you ever begin? How could you ever explain it?

Your eyes close for a moment, and you shake your head slightly. "I'm sorry," you whisper, desperate for him to hear you, to know you didn't mean it, that it was an accident, that you never wanted them to die because of you. "Father, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." The pain bubbles to the surface, and you are powerless to stop it. All the walls you've so carefully built around yourself crumble, and there is nothing left to protect you. "Please, please forgive me…"

And then, something inside you breaks.

Three years of guilt, anger, and sorrow come spilling out, the torrent stronger than you can control. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to silence the sobs that are escaping your lips, but it is to no avail. Finally, you are allowing yourself to grieve.

You're saying goodbye.

No longer do you try to resist the flood of your tears. Instead, you let them flow freely, washing away the darkness from your empty soul. You cry for your home, your family, the millions of innocent souls obliterated in the explosion. You cry for the mothers who never held their children in their arms, for the children who never had a chance to live before their lives were lost. You cry for the beauty that will never be seen again, the mountains and oceans and valleys and hills that are now nothing more than debris in space. And you cry because you survived, _you survived_, while they suffered for your mistakes. You should have been the one to die, not them. You should have paid the price for being caught by Vader, but instead, this was how the monster chose to punish you, by killing the very people who deserved to survive. Now you have to live with the guilt.

But you won't let it consume you. You're stronger than this, and you're going to prove it. You're going to live for them, make their sacrifice count.

It's all you can do.

Finally you have no more tears to cry. For the first time in three years, you feel…cleansed, the razor edge of pain deep within you beginning to dull, slowly, to an ever-present ache in your chest. You feel stronger now. You've made your peace with the empty spot in the heavens. The hurt is still there, but now you know you can live with it. Only time will fully heal the wound, but you can survive the healing process.

And survive it you will.

You wipe away the remnants of your grief, drinking in the sight of the stars above you. Time seems to pass indefinitely; it could have been moments, it could have been hours, but suddenly, you realize that you're no longer alone. You can feel the familiar presence very near, can practically sense the warmth radiating from the figure behind you. The shadow moves closer, coming to a halt off to your left, and you suddenly recognize the figure. Your eyes widen in understanding and disbelief.

He was the last person you expected to see.

But there he is, so close you could reach out and touch him. You can feel his eyes boring into you, his gaze penetrating all you are, and you realize just how unprotected you are at this moment. Every wall you've built in the last three years has fallen, leaving you totally defenseless and vulnerable, and you can't let him see you like this. Using every ounce of strength you have left, you begin to rebuild your defenses, your expression hardening into your usual mask for just a moment…

Then suddenly you stop. It doesn't matter to you anymore. You're too tired, too weary and worn to hide again. If it means facing Han's ridicule, so be it. But you won't allow yourself to be ashamed, no matter how hard it is to resist your default actions. You've done that enough.

You feel a slight pressure against your skin through the thick jacket you wear, and you realize it's Han's fingers resting against your upper arm. Eyes that were once staring into the black void above you are now drawn away from the heavens, and you find your gaze inexplicably drawn to his, sable eyes locking firmly with his own hazel-green. You stare deeply into those eyes, surrounded by the warmth of his presence, a deep connection shared between you that you've never experienced before. There are so many things reflecting in his gaze: concern, care, understanding, regret. You could spend forever this way, lost in those deep twin pools. If only the peace between you could last.

Then he speaks, and his words are the last thing you ever expected to hear.

"I'm sorry."

He says nothing else, but so much more can be heard in his voice, seen in his gaze. His eyes are pleading with you to understand, to know that he means more than those simple words can ever say. The tenderness and regret in his expression is almost enough to undo you again, and you can't maintain eye contact with him any longer for fear of more tears. You close your eyes, nodding, showing him that you understand, and you take a deep, steadying breath. Something within you aches, and for reasons you can't explain, you need to be back in the comfort of his deep eyes. Pulling your lids open, you find the green pools again, drawing strength from him. "I know," you whisper in response, feeling the burn of tears pricking at your eyes again, so you look back to the heavens to quell the flood. "Me too."

He doesn't respond to you at first, the silence reigning over you unbroken. You take your lower lip between your teeth, your thoughts far away from this place. Then, suddenly, you feel something firm and warm wrapping around your shoulders, the sensation foreign and welcome all at once. You realize Han has put his arm around you, and your first instinct is to pull away from him, but then you find yourself staring into his eyes, and you know that pulling away is the last thing you want to do.

So you surprise yourself and get closer, accepting his embrace, leaning in closer and resting your head against the strength of his shoulder. You let your eyes drift closed and you breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent unique only to him. A sense of complete security enfolds you, and for the first time in a long while, you feel safe, his arms shielding you from the rest of the world. Some part of you knows that he'll always protect you. He's proved it a thousand times before, saving your life at the risk of his own. You may not always get along, but you respect him, and deep down, you think he respects you too. He's become a good friend, someone you trust even when you can't trust yourself. You care for him, and you honestly don't want to see him go.

You don't want to lose him too.

But you push those thoughts from your mind, only concentrating on here and now, memorizing the feel of being in his arms. For once, you're unsure of what the future might bring, whether anything will change or whether it will stay the same. But for now, you're content to be here, with him, his warmth enveloping you and helping you to heal. As you gaze into the black sky above you, you feel an incredible sense of belonging, as if you're exactly where you're supposed to be, as if you've won a battle you never even knew you fought. The victory is sweet, but the healing is sweeter.

And deep inside, no matter what the future may bring, you know you've already won.

**The End**

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_And there you have it, folks! Thank you so much for reading. Reviews are greatly appreciated, and constructive criticizm is welcome, but please, spare my bleeding heart the pain of a sharp tongue. After all, I'm only sixteen. Thank you again, and I hope you enjoyed my work._


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